CHAPTER IV

A LESSON UPON THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT—“PARENTS OBEY YOUR
CHILDREN”

A FAMILY council was in course of holding in the lofty
white‐and‐gold boudoir, overlooking the Park, in Albert Gate. Lady Louisa
Barking had summoned it. She had also exercised a measure of selection among
intending members. For instance Lady Margaret and Lady Emily—the former
having a disposition, in the opinion of her elder sister, to put herself
forward and support the good cause with more zeal than discretion, the
latter being but a weak‐kneed supporter of the cause at best—were summarily
dismissed.

“It was really perfectly unnecessary to discuss this sort of thing before the
younger girls,” she said. “It put them out of their place and rather rubbed
the freshness off their minds. And then they would chatter among themselves.
And it all became a little foolish and missy. They never knew when to
stop.”

page: 305

One member of the Quayle family, and that a leading one, had taken his
dismissal before it was given and, with a nice mixture of defective
moral‐courage and good common‐sense, had removed himself bodily from the
neighbourhood of the scene of action. Lord Shotover was still in London.
Along with the payment of his debts had come a remarkable increase of
cheerfulness. He made no more allusions to the unpleasant subject of cutting
his throat, while the proposed foreign tour had been relegated to a vague
future. It seemed a pity not to see the season out. It would be little short
of a crime to miss Goodwood. He might go out with Decies to India in the
autumn, when that young soldier’s leave had expired, and look Guy up a bit.
He would rather like a turn at pig‐sticking—and there were plenty of pig, he
understood, in the neighbourhood of Agra, where his brother was now
stationed. On the morning in question, Lord Shotover, in excellent spirits,
had walked down Piccadilly with his father, from his rooms in Jermyn Street
to Albert Gate. The elder gentleman, arriving from Westchurch by an early
train, had solaced himself with a share of the by no means ascetic breakfast
of which his eldest son was partaking at a little after half‐past ten. It
was very much too good a breakfast for a person in Lord Shotover’s existing
financial position—so indeed were the rooms—so, in respect of locality, was
Jermyn Street itself. Lord Fallowfeild knew this, no man better. Yet he was
genuinely pleased, impressed even, by the luxury with which his erring son
was surrounded, and proceeded to praise his cook, praise his valet’s waiting
at table, praise some fine, old, sporting prints upon the wall. He went so
far, indeed, as to chuckle discreetly—immaculately faithful husband though
he was—over certain photographs of ladies, more fair and kind than wise,
which were stuck in the frame of the looking‐glass over the chimney‐piece.
In return for which acts of good‐fellowship Lord Shotover accompanied him as
far as the steps of the mansion in Albert Gate. There he paused, remarking
with the most disarming frankness:—

“I would come in. I want to awfully, I assure you. I quite agree with you
about all this affair, you know, and I should uncommonly like to let the
others know it. But, between ourselves, Louisa’s been so short with me
lately, so infernally short—if you’ll pardon my saying so—that it’s become
downright disagreeable to me to run across her. So I’m afraid I might only
make matters worse all round, don’t you know, if I put in an appearance this
morning.”

Then, as he followed the groom‐of‐the‐chambers up the bare, white, marble
staircase—which struck almost vault‐like in its chill and silence, after the
heat and glare and turmoil of the great thoroughfare without—he added to
himself:—

“Good fellow, Shotover. Has his faults, but upon my word, when you come to
think of it, so have all of us. Very good‐hearted, sensible fellow at
bottom, Shotover. Always responds when you talk rationally to him. No
nonsense about him.”—His lordship sighed as he climbed the marble stair.
“Great comfort to me at times Shotover. Shows very proper feeling on the
present occasion, but naturally feels a diffidence about expressing it.”

Thus, in the end, it happened that the family council consisted only of the
lady of the house, her sister Lady Alicia Winterbotham, Mr. Ludovic Quayle,
and the parent whom all three of them were, each in their several ways, so
perfectly willing to instruct in his duty towards his children.

Ludovic, perhaps, displayed less alacrity than usual in offering good advice
to his father. His policy was rather that of masterly inactivity. Indeed, as
the discussion waxed hot—his sisters’ voices rising slightly in tone, while
Lord Fallowfeild’s replies disclosed a vein of dogged obstinacy—he withdrew
from the field of battle and moved slowly round the room staring
abstractedly at the pictures. There was a seductive, female head by Greuze,
a couple of reposeful landscapes by Morland, a little Constable—waterways,
trees, and distant woodland, swept by wind and weather. But upon these the
young man bestowed scant attention. That which fascinated his gaze was a
series of half‐length portraits, in oval frames, representing his parents,
himself, his sisters, and brothers. These portraits were the work of a lady
whose artistic gifts, and whose prices, were alike modest. They were in
coloured chalks, and had, after adorning her own sitting‐room for a number
of years, been given, as a wedding present, by Lady Fallowfeild to her
eldest daughter. Mr. Quayle reviewed them leisurely now, looking over his
shoulder now and again to note how the tide of battle rolled, and raising
his eyebrows in mute protest when the voices of the two ladies became more
than usually elevated.

“You see, papa, you have not been here”—Lady Louisa was saying.

“No, I haven’t,” interrupted Lord Fallowfeild. “And very
page: 307 much I regret that I haven’t. Should have done my
best to put a stop to this engagement at the outset—before there was any
engagement at all, in fact.”

“And so you cannot possibly know how the whole thing—any breaking off I
mean—would be regarded.”

“Can’t I, though?” said Lord Fallowfeild. “I know perfectly well how I should
regard it myself.”

“You do not take the advantages sufficiently into consideration, papa. Of
course with their enormous wealth they can afford to do anything.”—Mr.
Winterbotham’s income was far from princely at this period, and Lady Alicia
was liable to be at once envious of, and injured by, the riches of others.
Her wardrobe was limited. She was, this morning, vexatiously conscious of a
warmer hue in the back pleats than in the front breadth of her mauve,
cashmere dress, sparsely decorated with bows of but indifferently white
ribbon.—“It has enabled them to make an immense success. One really gets
rather tired of hearing about them. But everybody goes to their house, you
know, and says that he is perfectly charming.”

“Half the parents in London would jump at the chance of one of their girls
making such a marriage,”—this from Lady Louisa.

Mr. Quayle looked over his shoulder and registered a conviction that his
father did not belong to that active, parental moiety. He sat stubbornly on
a straight‐backed, white‐and‐gold chair, his hands clasped on the top of his
favourite, gold‐headed walking‐stick. He had refused to part with this
weapon on entering the house. It gave him a sense of authority, of security.
Meanwhile his habitually placid and infantile countenance wore an expression
of the acutest worry.

“Would they, though?” he said, in response to his daughter’s information
regarding the jumping moiety.—“Well, I shouldn’t. In point of fact, I don’t.
All that you and Alicia tell me may be perfectly true, my dear Louisa. I
would not, for a moment, attempt to discredit your statements. And I don’t
wish to be intemperate.—Stupid thing intemperance, sign of weakness,
intemperance.—Still I must repeat, and I do repeat, I repeat clearly, that I
do not approve of this engagement.”

“Did I not prophesy long, long ago what my father’s attitude would be,
Louisa?” Mr. Quayle murmured gently, over his shoulder.

Then he fell to contemplating the portrait of his brother Guy, aged seven,
who was represented arrayed in a brown‐holland blouse of singular
formlessness confined at the waist by
page: 308 a
black leather belt, and carrying, cupid‐like, in his hands a bow and arrows
decorated with sky‐blue ribbons.—“Were my brothers and I actually such
appallingly insipid‐looking little idiots?” he asked himself. “In that case
the years do bring compensations. We really bear fewer outward traces of
utter imbecility now.”

“I don’t wish to be harsh with you, my dears—never have been harsh, to my
knowledge, with any one of my children. Believe in kindness. Always have
been lenient with my children”—

“Never have approved of harshness,” continued Lord Fallowfeild. “Still I do
feel I should have been given an opportunity of speaking my mind sooner. I
ought to have been referred to in the first place. It was my right. It was
due to me. I don’t wish to assert my authority in a tyrannical manner. Hate
tyranny, always have hated parental tyranny. Still I feel that it was due to
me. And Shotover quite agrees with me. Talked in a very nice, gentlemanly,
high‐minded way about it all this morning, did Shotover.”

The two ladies exchanged glances, drawing themselves up with an assumption of
reticence and severity.

“Really!” exclaimed Lady Alicia. “It seems a pity, papa, that Shotover’s
actions are not a little more in keeping with his conversation, then.”

But Lord Fallowfeild only grasped the head of his walking‐stick the tighter,
congratulating himself the while on the unshakable firmness both of his
mental and physical attitude.

“Oh! ah! yes,” he said, rising to heights of quite reckless defiance. “I know
there is a great deal of prejudice against Shotover, just now, among you. He
alluded to it this morning with a great deal of feeling. He was not bitter,
but he is very much hurt, is Shotover. You are hard on him, Alicia. It is a
painful thing to observe upon, but you are hard, and so is Winterbotham. I
regret to be obliged to put it so plainly, but I was displeased by
Winterbotham’s tone about your brother, last time you and he were down at
Whitney from Saturday to Monday.”

“At all events, papa, George has never cost his parents a single penny since
he left Balliol,” Lady Alicia replied, with some spirit and a very high
colour.

page: 309

But Lord Fallowfeild was not to be beguiled into discussion of side issues,
though his amiable face was crumpled and puckered by the effort to present
an uncompromising front to the enemy.

“Some of you ought to have written and informed me as soon as you had any
suspicion of what was likely to happen. Not to do so was underhand. I do not
wish to employ strong language, but I do consider it underhand. Shotover
tells me he would have written if he had only known. But, of course, in the
present state of feeling, he was shut out from it all. Ludovic did know, I
presume. And, I am sorry to say it, but I consider it very unhandsome of
Ludovic not to have communicated with me.”

At this juncture Mr. Quayle desisted from contemplation of the family
portraits and approached the belligerents, threading his way carefully
between the many tables and chairs. There was much furniture, yet but few
ornaments, in Lady Louisa’s boudoir. The young man’s long neck was directed
slightly forward and his expression was one of polite inquiry.

“It is very warm this morning,” he remarked parenthetically, “and, as a
family, we appear to feel it. You did me the honour to refer to me just now,
I believe, my dear father? Since my two younger sisters have been banished,
it has happily become possible to hear both you, and myself, speak. You were
saying?”

“That you might very properly have written and told me about this business,
and given me an opportunity of expressing my opinion before things reached a
head.”

Mr. Quayle drew forward a chair and seated himself with mild deliberation.
Lord Fallowfeild began to fidget.—“Very clever fellow, Ludovic,” he said to
himself. “Wonderfully cool head”—and he became suspicious of his own wisdom
in having made direct appeal to a person thus distinguished.

“I might have written, my dear father. I admit that I might. But there were
difficulties. To begin with, I—in this particular—shared Shotover’s
position. Louisa had not seen fit to honour me with her confidence.—I beg
your pardon, Louisa, you were saying?—And so, you see, I really hadn’t
anything to write about.”

“But—but—this young man”—Lord Fallowfeild was sensible of a singular
reluctance to mention the name of his proposed son‐in‐law—“this young
Calmady, you know, he’s an intimate friend of yours”—

“Difficulty number two. For I doubted how you would take the matter”—

page: 310

“Did you, though?” said Lord Fallowfeild, with an appreciable smoothing of
crumples and puckers.

“I’m extremely attached to Dickie Calmady. And I did not want to put a spoke
in his wheel.”

“I am sure you do,” Mr. Quayle replied, indulgently. “You are always on the
side of doing the generous thing, my dear father,—when you see it.”

Here his lordship’s grasp upon the head of his walking‐stick relaxed
sensibly.

“Thank you, Ludovic. Very pleasant thing to have one’s son say to one, I must
say, uncommonly pleasant.”—Alas! he felt himself to be slipping, slipping.
“Deucèd shrewd, diplomatic fellow, Ludovic,” he remarked to himself somewhat
ruefully. All the same, the little compliment warmed him through. He knew it
made for defeat, yet for the life of him he could not but relish it.—“Very
pleasant,” he repeated. “But that’s not the point, my dear boy. Now, about
this young fellow Calmady’s proposal for your sister Constance?”

Mr. Quayle looked full at the speaker, and for once his expression held no
hint of impertinence or raillery.

“Dickie Calmady is as fine a fellow as ever fought, or won, an almost
hopeless battle,” he said. “He is somewhat heroic, in my opinion. And he is
very lovable.”

“Is he, though?” Lord Fallowfeild commented, quite gently.

“A woman who understood him, and had some idea of all he must have gone
through, could not well help being very proud of him.”

Yet, even while speaking, the young man knew his advocacy to be but
half‐hearted. He praised his friend rather than his friend’s contemplated
marriage.—“But his dear, old lordship’s not very quick. He’ll never spot
that,” he added mentally. And then he reflected that little Lady Constance
was not very quick either. She might marry obediently, even gladly. But was
it probable she would develop sufficient imagination ever to understand, and
therefore be proud of, Richard Calmady?

“He is brilliant too,” Ludovic continued. “He is as well read as any man of
his standing whom I know, and he can think for himself. And, when he is in
the vein, he is unusually good company.”

“Everybody says he is extraordinarily agreeable,” broke in
page: 311 Lady Alicia. “Old Lady Combmartin was saying only
yesterday—George and I met her at the Aldhams’, Louisa, you know, at
dinner—that she had not heard better conversation for years. And she was
brought up among Macaulay, and Rogers, and all the Holland House set, so her
opinion really is worth having.”

But Lord Fallowfeild’s grasp had tightened again upon his walking‐stick.

“Was she, though?” he said rather incoherently.

“Pray, from all this, don’t run away with the notion Calmady is a prig,”
Ludovic interposed. “He is as keen a sportsman as you are—in as far, of
course, as sport is possible for him.”

Here Lord Fallowfeild, finding himself somewhat hard pressed, sought relief
in movement. He turned sideways, throwing one shapely leg across the other,
grasping the supporting walking‐stick in his right hand, while with the left
he laid hold of the back of the white‐and‐gold chair.

“Oh! ah! yes,” he said valiantly, directing his gaze upon the tree‐tops in
the Park. “I quite accept all you tell me. I don’t want to detract from your
friend’s merits—poor, mean sort of thing to detract from any man’s friend’s
merits. Gentlemanlike young fellow Calmady, the little I have seen of
him—reminds me of my poor friend his father. I liked his father. But, you
see, my dear boy, there is—well, there’s no denying it, there is—and
Shotover quite”—

“Of course, papa, we all know what you mean,” Lady Louisa interposed, with a
certain loftiness and, it must be owned, asperity. “I have never pretended
there was not something one had to get accustomed to. But really you forget
all about it almost immediately—everyone does—one can see that —don’t they,
Alicia? If you had met Sir Richard everywhere, as we have, this season, you
would realise how very very soon that is quite forgotten.”

“Is it, though?” said Lord Fallowfeild somewhat incredulously. His face had
returned to a sadly puckered condition.

“Yes, I assure you, nobody thinks of it, after just the first little shock,
don’t you know,”—this from Lady Louisa.

“I think one feels it is not quite nice to dwell on a thing of that kind,”
her sister chimed in, reddening again. “It ought to be ignored.”—From a
girl, the speaker had enjoyed a reputation for great refinement of mind.

“I think it amounts to being more than not nice,” echoed Lady Louisa. “I
think it is positively wrong, for nobody can
page: 312 tell what accident may not happen to any of us at any moment. And so I am
not at all sure that it is not actually unchristian to make a thing like
that into a serious objection.”

“You know, papa, there must be deformed people in some families, just as
there is consumption or insanity.”

“Or under‐breeding, or attenuated salaries,” Mr. Quayle softly murmured. “It
becomes evident, my dear father, you must not expect too much of sons, or I
of brothers, in‐law.”

“Think of old Lord Sokeington—I mean the great uncle of the present man, of
course—of his temper,” Lady Louisa proceeded, regardless of ironical
comment. “It amounted almost to mania. And yet Lady Dorothy Hellard would
certainly have married him. There never was any question about it.”

“Would she, though? Bad, old man, Sokeington. Never did approve of
Sokeington.”

“Of course she would. Mrs. Crookenden, who always has been devoted to her,
told me so.”

“Oh, dear no! indeed it wasn’t,” his daughter replied. “Lord Sokeington
behaved in the most outrageous manner. At the last moment he never proposed
to her at all. And then it came out that for years he had been living with
one of the still‐room maids.”

“Louisa!” cried Lady Alicia, turning scarlet.

“Had he, though? The old scoundrel!”

“Papa,” cried Lady Alicia.

“So he was, my dear. Very bad old man, Sokeington. Very amusing old man too,
though.”

And, overcome by certain reminiscences, Lord Fallowfeild chuckled a little,
shamefacedly. His second daughter thereupon arranged the folds of her mauve
cashmere, with bent head.—“It is very clear papa and Shotover have been
together to‐day,” she thought. “Shotover’s influence over papa is always
demoralising. It’s too extraordinary the subjects men joke about and call
amusing when they get together.”

A pause followed, a brief cessation of hostilities, during which Mr. Quayle
looked inquiringly at his three companions.

“Alicia fancies herself shocked,” he said to himself, “and my father fancies
himself wicked, and Louisa fancies herself a chosen vessel. Strong delusion
is upon them all. The only
page: 313 question is
whose delusion is the strongest, and who, consequently, will first renew the
fray? Ah! the chosen vessel! I thought as much.”

“You see, papa, one really must be practical,” Lady Louisa began in clear,
emphatic tones. “We all know how you have spoiled Constance. She and
Shotover have always been your favourites. But even you must admit that
Shotover’s wretched extravagance has impoverished you, and helped to
impoverish all your other children. And you must also admit, notwithstanding
your partiality for Constance, that”—

“I want to see Connie. I want to hear from herself that she”—broke out Lord
Fallowfeild. His kindly heart yearned over this ewe‐lamb of his large flock.
But the eldest of the said flock interposed sternly.

“No, no,” she cried, “pray, papa, not yet. Connie is quite contented and
reasonable—I believe she is out shopping just now, too. And while you are in
this state of indecision yourself, it would be the greatest mistake for you
to see her. It would only disturb and upset her—wouldn’t it, Alicia?”

And the lady thus appealed to assented. It is true that when she arrived at
the great house in Albert Gate that morning she had found little Lady
Constance with her pretty, baby face sadly marred by tears. But she had put
that down to the exigencies of the situation. All young ladies of refined
mind cried under kindred circumstances. Had she not herself wept copiously,
for the better part of a week, before finally deciding to accept George
Winterbotham? Moreover, a point of jealousy undoubtedly pricked Lady Alicia
in this connection. She was far from being a cruel woman, but, comparing her
own modest material advantages in marriage with the surprisingly handsome
ones offered to her little sister, she could not be wholly sorry that the
latter’s rose was not entirely without thorns. That the flower in question
should have been thornless, as well as so very fine and large, would surely
have trenched on injustice to herself. This thought had, perhaps
unconsciously, influenced her when enlarging on the becomingness of a
refined indifference to Sir Richard Calmady’s deformity. In her heart of
hearts she was disposed, perhaps unconsciously, to hail rather than deplore
the fact of that same deformity. For did it not tend subjectively to
equalise her lot and that of her little sister, and modify the otherwise
humiliating disparity of their respective fortunes? Therefore she capped
Lady Louisa’s speech, by saying immediately:—

“Yes, indeed, papa, it would only be an unkindness to run
page: 314 any risk of upsetting Connie. No really nice girl
ever really quite likes the idea of marriage.”—

“Oh, of course not! How could she? And then, papa, you know how you have
always indulged Connie”—Lady Alicia’s voice was slightly peevish in tone.
She was not in very good health at the present time, with the consequence
that her face showed thin and bird‐like. While, notwithstanding the genial
heat of the summer’s day, she presented a starved and chilly
appearance.—“Always indulged Connie,” she repeated, “and that has inclined
her to be rather selfish and fanciful.”

The above statements, both regarding his own conduct and the effect of that
conduct upon his little ewe‐lamb, nettled the amiable nobleman considerably.
He faced round upon the speaker with an intention of reprimand, but in so
doing his eyes were arrested by his daughter’s faded dress and disorganised
complexion. He relented.—“Poor thing looks ill,” he thought. “A man’s an
unworthy brute who ever says a sharp word to a woman in her condition.”—And,
before he had time to find a word other than sharp, Lady Louisa Barking
returned to the charge.

“Exactly,” she asserted. “Alicia is perfectly right. At present Connie is
quite reasonable. And all we entreat, papa, is that you will let her remain
so, until you have made up your own mind. Do pray let us be dignified. One
knows how the servants get hold of anything of this kind and discuss it, if
there is any want of dignity or any indecision. That is too odious. And I
must really think just a little of Mr. Barking and myself in the matter. It
has all gone on in our house, you see. One must consider appearances, and
with all the recent gossip about Shotover, we do not want another esclandre—the servants knowing all about it
too. And then, with all your partiality for Constance, you cannot suppose
she will have many opportunities of marrying men with forty or fifty
thousand a year.”

“No, papa, as Louisa says, in your partiality for Connie you must not
entirely forget the claims of your other children. She must not be
encouraged to think exclusively of herself, and it is not fair that you
should think exclusively of her. I know that George and I are poor, but it
is through no fault of our own. He most honourably refuses to take anything
from his mother, and you know how small my private income is. Yet no one can
accuse George of lack of generosity. When any of my family want to come to
us he always makes them welcome. Maggie
page: 315
only left us last Thursday, and Emily comes to‐morrow. I know we can’t do
much. It is not possible with our small means and establishment. But what
little we can do, George is most willing should be done.”

“Thank you, papa,” she said. “I own I was a little hurt just now by the tone
in which you alluded to George.”

“Were you, though? I’m sure I’m very sorry, my dear Alicia. Hate to hurt
anybody, specially one of my own children. Unnatural thing to hurt one of
your own children. But you see this feeling of all of you about Shotover has
been very painful to me. I never have liked divisions in families. Never
know where they may lead to. Nasty, uncomfortable things divisions in
families.”

“Well, papa, I can only say that divisions are almost invariably caused by a
want of the sense of duty.”—Lady Louisa’s voice was stern. “And if people
are over‐indulged they become selfish, and then, of course, they lose their
sense of duty.”

“Shotover has really no one but himself to thank for any bitterness that his
brothers and sisters may feel towards him. He has thrown away his chances,
has got the whole family talked about in a most objectionable manner, and
has been a serious encumbrance to you, and indirectly to all of us. We have
all suffered quite enough trouble and annoyance already. And so I must
protest, papa, I must very strongly and definitely protest, against Connie
being permitted, still more encouraged, to do exactly the same thing.”

Lord Fallowfeild, still grasping his walking‐stick,—though he could not but
fear that trusted weapon had proved faithless and sadly failed in its duty
of support,—gazed distractedly at the speaker. Visions of Jewish
money‐lenders, of ladies more fair and kind than wise, of guinea points at
whist, of the prize ring, of Baden‐Baden, of Newmarket and Doncaster, arose
confusedly before him. What the deuce,—he did not like bad language, but
really,—what the dickens, had all these to do with his ewe‐lamb, innocent,
little Constance, her virgin‐white body and soul, and her sweet, wide‐eyed
prettiness?

“My dear Louisa, no doubt you know what you mean, but I give you my word I
don’t,” he began.

page: 316

“Hear, hear, my dear father,” put in Mr. Quayle. “There I am with you.
Louisa’s wing is strong, her range is great. I myself, on this occasion,
find it not a little difficult to follow her.”

“Nonsense, Ludovic,” almost snapped the lady. “You follow me perfectly, or
can do so if you use your common sense. Papa must face the fact, that
Constance cannot afford—that we cannot afford to have her—throw away her
chances, as Shotover has thrown away his. We all have a duty, not only to
ourselves, but to each other. Inclination must give way to duty—though I do
not say Constance exhibits any real disinclination to this marriage. She is
a little flurried. As Alicia said just now, every really nice‐minded girl is
flurried at the idea of marriage. She ought to be. I consider it only
delicate that she should be. But she understands—I have pointed it out to
her—that her money, her position, and those two big houses—Brockhurst and
the one in Lowndes Square—will be of the greatest advantage to the girls and
to her brothers. It is not as if she was nobody. The scullery‐maid can marry
whom she likes, of course. But in our rank of life it is different. A girl
is bound to think of her family, as well as of herself. She is bound to
consider”—

The groom‐of‐the‐chambers opened the door and advanced solemnly across the
boudoir to Lord Fallowfeild.

“Sir Richard Calmady is in the smoking‐room, my lord,” he said, “to see
you.”